


Cry Havoc

by Shadowhunter249



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 01:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowhunter249/pseuds/Shadowhunter249
Summary: Lord Black fights for himself... And perhaps a bit more.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its affiliates.

Bang!

Sluuuurp.

Pop.

Gasp!

Reaching his hand to the right, a man grasps hold of a polymer handle, and brings his arm back up in front of him, pointing at the door. A head of brown hair raises itself from his naked lap, revealing itself streaked with tears and mascara. His left hand shoots up, and drags her head back down.

Slurp.

Gag.

Throwing his head back, the man moans, shudders, and his eyes roll back ever so slightly. He releases the head after a few more seconds, and the woman falls to the ground, crying and choking. His arm never wavered from the door. The man turns to focus solely on the door, the woman now of no consequence as she crawls slowly towards the bed. The heavy clatter of footfalls resounds outside the door, as stairs are climbed.

Crash!

The door comes flying off its hinges, sailing neatly in front of the man. With two quick pulls of his finger, a loud report issues twice from the man’s hand, large holes appearing in the first man to come through the door. Another quick pull, and the man who hastily flicked his wrist to erect a glowing blue shield found himself with a hole neatly between the eyeholes of his silver mask.

Three red streaks follow the second man, and rend a great hole in the floor under the bed. A great shower of red liquid sprays the room. Two more shots sees the man that fired them dead on the ground, blood pooling from under his chest.

“Well, it seems that this one is over,” the man says.

Raising the gun in his hand, he bent his elbow, a large, black hole appearing before his eye. He pulls the trigger, and the sixth and final shot blows his brain through the back of his skull.

Three more men rush into the room, sticks protruding from their hands and pointing around the room. When they see the man dead, they take off their silver skull masks.

The man on the right, the tallest coincidentally, pulls a mirror from his pocket. He raises it to his face, and taps it with his stick.

“Mercurius is dead,” he speaks into the mirror.

A hissing laugh issues forth from the mirror.


	2. Arriving at the Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its affiliates.
> 
> Formatting on this site is impossible.

Chapter 1:

        Arriving at the Cup          

Waking up in Black Manor is usually an experience. The expected, yet all consuming darkness of the black paint cut sharply by silver highlights shocks the senses to alert. As the shades open when they sense the occupant rising, the beautiful darkness is exchanged for a view of the expansive grounds. Green stretches as far as the eye can see, magic expansion charms on an enormous scale clearly responsible. A forest can be seen in the south side of the property, a river flowing in front, gurgling water rushing over the dark rocks that cover the riverbed.

            The manor itself is daunting, with castle most likely being a more apt name for the structure. The dark stone walls have ancient vines clinging to most of them, odds most likely that they are some form of ancient defense. The largest tower, at the northernmost end of the manor is where the young Lord Black rises.

            Eyelids open slowly, taking in the bright morning sun and then shutting just as slowly. This process repeats a few times, each slightly more quickly than the last, until startlingly bright green eyes stare at the ceiling above him. Groaning, he sits up slowly, irises constricting and stretching vertically for a moment before returning to normal. A tattoo can be seen above his heart, a snarling German Shepherd in black and white. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and eases himself to the floor, in no particular hurry.

            His bare feet touch the warm carpet on the floor, toes wiggling in contentment. Even after so many years, it is shocking to him that he could live in such lavishness. Frowning, he bemoans the fact that even this time around his little brother is not with him. He adjusts the hem of his pajama shorts and scratches at his strong stomach, an old habit. The creak of the door at the front of his room brings his attention to his left. A small creature, humanoid, enters his room. It wears what would appear to be a sack, possibly from an old purchase of potatoes.

            “What does Master want for his breakfast this morning?” it asks the man.

            “Good morning, Linkey,” the man says. “I would like two eggs and two pieces of toast with butter.”

            “Yes Master.”

            The creature leaves, and the man walks towards the window, passing the end of the carpet. He pads forwards, fluid in his movements. He quickly dresses, nicely but not too formal. A pair of grey slacks and a light blue button up shirt, untucked and with the sleeves rolled up his arms. A silver watch resides on his left wrist. He opens the door to his room, exiting and walking down the winding steps of the tower.

            He walks through the quiet halls, occasionally running a hand through his raven black hair, a good choice when one considers his family. The early morning light accentuates his high, aristocratic cheekbones and full lips, turned upwards into a small smile. A few short minutes later finds him entering the kitchen, a table set with a plate with his breakfast on it. Linkey stands to the side of the table, in a slight bow. A wave of the man’s hand, and Linkey holds himself upright and exits the room. Another wave of his hand, and music sounds through the room, an almost sarcastic smile on the man’s face as the words of the song carry through.

            _I see a red door and I want it painted black._

_How poetic._ He muses, and sets about eating his small meal.

            He finishes his food, the last few bars of the song sounding throughout the room. He stands up, pushing the chair backwards. He brings his plate to the sink, placing it in with the silverware on top of it. He then walks to exit the room, making sure to push the chair back in before he leaves. Once more the man walks through the quiet halls.

            Reaching the entrance hall, he picks up both a bag and a glass ball. A quick check of his watch reveals the time. _9:47._ He nods and walks to the front door. Opening it, he steps into the warm summer air. He walks briskly down the steps in front of the main entrance, and along the path in front of him. A few minutes on, he turns left to walk up on top of a hill, covered in brilliant green grass. There he stands looking upon his land, waiting. Another look at his watch. Waiting. Another look. Waiting. Another look. Smile. _JERK!_

            A squeezing sensation surrounds the man. Quite uncomfortable, one would assume. He slams upon the ground once more, staying on his feet only due to hours of practice and an inborn sense of balance that is better than most. _God, I will never get used to that shit._ Shaking his head to clear it, he steps forward.

A man sits on a chair in front of a grassy hill, the grass more brown than green, reading a newspaper and attempting to look inconspicuous. It fails quite dramatically. He wears a sweatshirt, normally out of place on an old man, but more so because it happened to be backwards. The bright pink pants were actually quite funny. Lord Black steps forward, showing his ring to the ridiculously dressed man. A sleek onyx piece, it fits perfectly with a small raven in flight is carved into the face of the ring, which is slightly larger than the rest. The old man glances at his paper, and then looks back up.

“Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup, Lord Black.”

“It is a pleasure to be here.”

With that, Lord Black walks over the hill. A great campsite sprawls before him, with a large stadium behind the tents. To his left, a purple fireball tears through the sky. _Idiots._ He shakes his head, and strides through the campsite, heading ever closer to the stadium. As he nears the towering structure, a cordoned-off area appears before him. The tents are more spread out here, with perhaps forty tents in an area that would otherwise hold three times as many. Every tent had a crest upon it, all well known and powerful families.

The man walks to an open spot, reserved in advance, and pulls a tent from his bag. Throwing it to the ground, it spreads out, each corner staking itself into the ground. The fabric ripples as it assembles itself, pulling up higher, until it stands at roughly four feet, about halfway up the man’s waist. Reaching his hand up, the man opens the flap and steps into his tent.

Inside the tent, is the first room, a family room of sorts, with a comfortable looking couch. _Bigger on the inside, eh?_ Righting himself, the man walks into a small kitchen, and fixes himself a glass of water. Sipping from his glass, he picks up a newspaper. _The Wall Street Journal_ it reads, a decidedly muggle publication. It would seem out of place to an outside observer, were it not for the intensity with which the man devourers the knowledge that it gives him, stock prices and speculations are what capture his attention.

A few minutes in, not enough to fully digest the information, but enough to look it over, the flap opens again. Three people step into the room. The first is a man, six-foot-one with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. The second is a woman, five-foot-six with raven black hair and dark eyes. The third is also a woman, five-foot-four, petite, with bright pink hair and golden eyes. This last one practically skips forward, and crushes the man in a hug.

“Marc! It’s great to see you again!”

Giving a smirk, the man replies, “Always my pleasure, Nymphadora.”

Pouting, the woman pulls away, and flicks him slightly on the nose, “I’m always shocked that you aren’t taller.”

Shrugging, Marc says, “I like being five eleven. It suits me.”

He then turns and smiles at the other two people in the tent.

“Andromeda, how wonderful to see you,” he says, stepping forward and laying a light kiss on her knuckle.

“My Lord,” she says with a smile on her face.

“I hope I don’t need to worry about my wife leaving me for a strapping young gentleman,” the sandy-haired man says, a laugh seeming to be hidden by a false angry face.

“Never Ted,” Marc replies, extending his hand to the older man.

Ted grasps his hand, and they shake. His serious face melts away, replaced quickly with a bright smile.

“How is your practice faring?”

Both Andromeda and Ted work in their own solicitor firm, Ted being one of the first muggleborn solicitors to receive widespread recognition. After accepting them back into the family, Lord Black had given the two the money that they needed to really get traction in the legal world. The two were ecstatic and had thanked him profusely, but he had shrugged them off, insisting that family takes care of its own.

“It is coming along wonderfully,” Andromeda says.

“Yes, we have just gotten a few new clients, and are starting to branch into the muggle world,” Ted elaborates.

“That is so good to hear,” Marc says. “The outside world is full of unknown wealth and opportunity.” _And power._ His unconscious pat on the solid metal object on the small of his back goes unnoticed by the family.

“Yes, and it is well past time that we take advantage of it,” Andromeda says.

“Must you always talk of business?” Nymphadora sighs exasperatedly.

Marc laughs, “It makes for good conversation,”

Nymphadora rolls her eyes, “Oh! I just finished a pretty cool case!”

“Oh? What was it?”

“Well, there was this string of animal killings outside of muggle London. They were all normal, except they all showed signs of having been killed with magic. All of the animals had holes drilled through them with dark magic. It was some pretty potent stuff. Anyway, some kid had found a preloaded wand that had the dark drilling spell recorded in it. He had been waving it around and accidentally killing things. Poor thing. He’s a muggle, so we had to obliviate him.”

Marc nodded, “That is pretty cool, Nymph.”

She smiles, slightly abashed, “Well, it was nothin’.”

“Heh, I’m sure,” he says.

The family and Marc continue talking of such nonsense things for a while longer, nearly getting lost in their recounting of the last few weeks since they had last seen each other.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Prelude to Tragedy

            A few hours pass, the four inhabitants of the camp chatting the time away happily. As the time slips away from them, a cannon fires, alerting everyone to the first call for spectators.

            “Well, I guess we had better be on our way,” Marc says, standing from the couch.

            “Hey, Marc?” Nymphadora asks.

            “Yeah, Nymph,” he replies.

            “Do you think your brother will be here?”

            “I’m not sure, but I guess we shall see.”

            Everyone becomes a little solemn at that, and they exit the tent. The walk to the stadium is short for them, having been camped almost directly in front of it. They walk through the main entrance, looking upon the two grand staircases climbing ever higher into the towering structure. Heading to the right staircase, they step up the first few steps. As expected, when they stopped on the fifth step, it started to move on its own. It carried them up many levels, finally stopping at a lavish-looking box with seating for maybe fifty people, a fully-stocked bar in the back, and a wait-staff.

            Walking forward, they take their seats. While not the first in the box, with a family of three blonde-haired people, a man, a woman, and their child already present, they had their pick of the seats. They took four seats at the top right of the box, affording them an expansive view of the pitch before them. More people begin to come in, some sitting down whilst others patronize the bar.

Eventually two men and a family of four enter together, the three men talking. Almost immediately, almost all male (and Nymphadora’s) eyes in the room are glued to the other three people, all female. The oldest looks to be perhaps fifty, but with a timeless beauty that enraptures the people. Her hair falls, ethereal, in a blonde wave without a single strand not in its proper place. Her blue eyes scan the room, calculating. There is a small, polite smile on her face.

The youngest looks about eight. Like her mother, she has blonde hair, but it is not as perfect. She is undeniably cute, with a button nose and cheerful blue eyes. It would seem, however, that she has not yet grown into the beauty that her mother and sister exude.

It is the middle one, only, that manages to capture the attention of Lord Black. Like her mother, she is astoundingly gorgeous. Unlike her mother and sister, she has pitch black hair, that is wavy almost to the point of being curly. She has deep blue eyes that seem to suck him into their depths, pondering the mystery of such a creature. Her breasts swell gently underneath a light blue blouse, just more than a handful it would seem. Her waist tapers down ever so slightly before once more swelling outward at the hips, and then continues down to legs that appear creamy below a conservative skirt. Her pearly white skin is flawless, unmarred even into her teenage years.

It is only a split second later that Marc realizes that she is staring back just as intently. He smirks slightly, targeting some intent towards her and opening his walls slightly. She stumbles a little as he turns back to the family sitting next to him. _I would love to play the game. Would you?_

“Close your mouth, Nymphadora, it’s unbecoming of a Black,” he says to her, and she fumbles to return to her senses, managing after a few short seconds.

She shakes her head and sheepishly says, “Sorry, Marc.”

“Veela are a wonder, are they not?” he asks, teasingly.

Lord Black stands up, turning, and walks towards the man in the center of the three. _I guess certain things are expected of me._ He extends his hand.

“Good evening, Minister,” he says.

Fudge takes his hand lightly and shakes it, “Good evening, Lord Black. If I may introduce you, this is Minister Oblansk from Bulgaria, and Ambassador Delacour from France.”

Marc turns, extending his hand once more to the other Minister, “A fine evening to you as well, sir.”

Minister Oblansk grasps his hand firmly, giving a quick shake, “A good evening to you.”

By now, everyone who had been previously enthralled was largely back to normal, if a bit sluggish.

Once more, Marc turns, and extends his hand, “I hope you find yourself well in our fine country, Ambassador Delacour.”

The man takes his hand in a strong grip, and replies, “I do, thank you.”

“You know, our fine Lord Black here is the youngest Lord for the past 200 years,” Fudge says, attempting to take back the conversation.

“Oh really, how interesting,” Ambassador Delacour says, appraising the aforementioned Lord with his eyes.

Lord Black sighs inside, and a bit of his Irish lilt slips through, “Unfortunately. It has become a great pride of Britain, even though I live in Ireland.”

Fudge looks slightly offended for a moment, before quickly composing himself. The man might be an abject failure at magic, but he is a shrewd politician.

“Yes, the Lord Black takes great pride in his country.”

Minister Oblansk chuckles lightly, which is slightly out of place on his tall, wide frame, “It is good to see a young man who shows such patriotism.”

Marc smiles lightly, “Thank you, sir.”

Suddenly, a voice light as air carries through the conversation, “And when will this fine young gentleman introduce himself to the ladies in front of him?”

_Finally._

“Oh how rude of me,” Marc says, taking her proffered hand and laying a quick kiss on her knuckle. “Good evening, Lady Delacour.”

She quirks a perfect eyebrow slightly, “Now how did you know who my husband is?”

He leans in slightly, and pretends to whisper, “Between you and I, none of the other men seemed good enough.”

He leans back, and she lets out a short laugh, touches her husband’s arm and says, “I like this one.”

The man chuckles slightly, “I hope I’m not in trouble.”

“Oh, doubtful,” Marc says, and looks down at the short girl that had bounded over to him while he was talking to her mother.

In the interim, a few other men and women had made their way over, and were introducing themselves to the men.

“’Ello Lord Black! My name is Gabrielle! How are you? What is your job? When did you become a Lord?” she asks, in rapid fire succession.

Marc smiles slightly, “Hello Gabrielle. I am doing quite well. I am a student at Hogwarts still. I became a Lord at 13, when my Godfather’s will allowed for it.”

Her eyes widen slightly, inquisitive and bright, “Wow that’s so cool!”

Suddenly he gets an idea, and flicks his wrist, a black stick appearing in his hand.

“Why don’t you take a look at this?”

Swirling his wand, he mutters lowly. A silver mist exudes from the tip of the wand, coalescing in his other, extended, hand. It takes shape slowly, a small silver ring with a topaz stone on top of it. When it is finished, he offers it to the little girl.

She grabs it from his hand, almost knocking it down, and says, “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you! This is so cool!”

“Well it seems that you’ve captured the heart of my little sister,” the final woman’s voice pipes up.

He looks up and gives her a smirk, “Are you jealous?”

“If only I was.”

“Ah yes, I don’t believe I caught your name…”

“It happens to be Fleur,” she extends one hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Fleur,” he takes her hand, once more laying a kiss on her knuckle. This one, however, lingers just a moment too long, and they maintain eye contact the entire time.

Footsteps sound out a little too loudly behind him, and he turns around to see Nymphadora stumbling a bit as she approaches Marc.

“Marc!”

“Hey, Nymph, what are you doing stumbling around?”

“Oh shut up.”

“Ah, Fleur, Gabrielle, this is my cousin Nymphadora,” Marc says, gesturing to the pink-haired girl next to him.

“Nice to meet you, Nymphadora,” both Fleur and Gabrielle intone.

“Please, call me Tonks, I despise that name,” she says, glaring softly at Marc. “He can only get away with it because he is my Head of House.”

“Oh sure, it’s not because I’m dashingly handsome,” he says her.

She pats him on the head, “Just keep telling yourself that, sweety.”

Fudge then starts to speak, “The match is about to begin, everyone should get to their seats.”

The four split up, Marc and Nymphadora going to their seats while Fleur and Gabrielle walk to their parents.

When they sit down, Nymphadora says, “Did you two enjoy eye-fucking each other in front of both of her parents and two Ministers of Magic?”

“Of course, I would have nothing else,” he says, “Otherwise who would I be?”

Nymphadora gives a rather undignified snort, “Good point, kid.”

“Oh please, you would love to give it to her given half a chance.”

“Yes, but you were the one that she could barely peel her eyes off of.”

“Aye, and it is certainly a point of great pride, catching the eye of a veela.”

“Oh please, like you would find it so difficult.”

“I hate to interrupt this conversation, but your brother is here Marc,” Andromeda says.

Marc looks towards the front of the box, where he sees a large family of redheads, a boy with jet black hair, and a girl with a large mane of fuzzy brown hair. Marc sighs lightly, hoping that he can avoid his brother today, not wanting to deal with Dumbledore’s bullshit.

“Unfortunately, it would seem,” he says.

While they were talking, the Minister was giving his speech. When he finished, two doors on opposite sides of the stadium burst open, and the cheerleaders for both teams came bounding out.

The Bulgarian cheerleaders, all veela, started dancing, their moves sultry and enticing. They drew a great cheer from the men, and even a few people tried to jump from the stadium to get to the beautiful women. Marc looked at them impassively, however, long ago was he able to withstand the Allure of most veela. It comes with the territory of being stronger. He noticed that his brother’s stupid git of a friend had attempted to throw himself off the side, but his twin brothers had kept him from doing so. He also noticed, with a bit of satisfaction, that his brother was able to hold himself in check.

Unknown to him, a certain

The Irish cheerleaders were leprechauns, throwing gold to everyone, which earned a greater applause, as everyone was cheering. They probably wouldn’t be cheering near as loudly if they knew that it was all fake, and would be worthless.

The match starts, going just about as expected. Bulgaria was carried here by their Seeker, Viktor Krum, and their Chasers and Keeper were not up to par. The Irish were easily able to take the lead. Krum managed to catch the Snitch, but not before Ireland was too far ahead for it to matter. Following the rather short match, there were many cheers for Ireland, Marc’s included.

Everyone stood up to leave, Marc being one of the first. Unfortunately, he was not able to get out quickly enough.

“Hello, big brother,” a voice says from behind him.

Marc sighs, exasperated, and turns, “Hi, Harry.”

Marc’s famous brother smiles, “I haven’t seen you this summer.”

“That’s because you refused to come home with me.”

“Well, Dumbledore says that I am only safe at the Dursley’s.”

_Son of a bitch._

“Define safe, Harry.”

“Unable to be found by Voldemort and his followers.”

“Yes, because they have been so active these past few years, that ancient wards, which have never been broken, would be totally unable to stop them.”

“But that’s what Dumbledore says.”

“I could care less what the Headmaster says.”

And then Tweedle Dee pipes in, “You should respect the Headmaster, Mercurius. He is the most powerful wizard since Merlin.

“And yet he is still a man,” Marc says.

“But he was the only person that Voldemort feared,” Hermione protests.

Remembering the last go-around, Marc chuckles a bit, “Whatever you say, Hermione.”

She huffs indignantly, like a small child.

“Whatever you say, he is the only person to ever truly help me,” Harry says.

“Now isn’t that strange,” Marc says. “You’re the most famous person, possibly ever, and only Dumbledore and the Weasleys have helped you. Seems a bit odd, don’t you think?”

“No, everyone else just wants me for my fame.”

“So why don’t you use that to your advantage.”

“Spoken like true Slytherin scum, Black.”

_And there is Tweedle Dum._

“How nice to see you again, Ron,” Marc says. “Well, as much of a pleasure as this has been, I must be off.”

With that, Marc turns to head back to his tent, intending on going out to party with his cousin. Unbeknownst to him, this time there would be something else thrown at him.


End file.
